Beneath these Branches
by dimpleforyourthoughts
Summary: A response to the prompt 'Wincest and trees'. Dean and Sam Winchester spend their lives playing and running around the boughs of a tree. The Winchester have their own version of their story. But this, this is the tree's. "You are over one hundred years old, and a boy climbs your branches." (Wincest)


**Author's Note: the prompt was Wincest+trees, so I took it and ran with it. Told from the trees pov. **

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You are over one hundred years old, and a boy climbs your branches. Two boys, to be exact, and they're swinging and laughing and you're a little miffed that they're being so unruly, but you try your best not to creak and break because the big one is hanging upside down and the little one is cracking up. And it's kind of nice.

They spend the day climbing you, hanging from your limbs and jumping in your shed leaves. The older one tucks the younger one into his chest so he doesn't fall and hurt himself, and they look at each other like they're starving to watch. Their dad—you think that's what it's called—watches them from the front seat of a sleek black car, bent over an old journal and trying not to smile as the little one shouts "Dean! Catch me!"

And the older one—Dean—does. Catches him every time.

They leave at the end of the day, after the little one (they call him Sammy) falls and skins his knee. Blood drips from his knee onto your soil, and it's a strange sensation. There is life on your soil, pulsing red and mixing with the dirt and leaves and it speaks of autumn and a boy who has a lot of growing up to do.

And you're not entirely positive, but you're pretty sure you've just seen family.

—

You're over a hundred years old, and a boy is kicking your trunk. He's screaming and swearing and kicking kicking kicking at your trunk and you're a little annoyed but mostly you feel saddened because this boy is screaming and cursing and there are tears spattering against your bark as he bruises his feet. And the taste of his tears is familiar, and for some reason you recall a cold autumn day and high pitched laughter and a black car in the sun.

But he is not alone.

There is another boy, a lot older, a little bit shorter, and he's screaming too, and they're both screaming at one another and shoving and swearing and then something changes. You're not sure if the sun has set or the wind shifted but something has changed and these two boys are clinging to each other, merged mouth to mouth as if they're starving to touch (they used to be just starving to watch, when had that stopped being enough, you wonder).

You think it's called a kiss.

They separate and the taller one lets out this half laugh half sob and it sounds like he's dying and the shorter one murmurs words, reassuring words and they cannot stop_touching_, hands and fingers roving over lips and chins and jawlines as if separation will tear them apart.

They leave hand in hand, but you see them again the next day, and the next day, and many days after in the summer sun. You're their safe haven, the place where they go to hide behind green leafy branches and stolen kisses. They spend the heated days under your protection and the cooler nights climbing your branches, as high as they can go. These two boys are a roman candle in the dark, sparking and dancing and obliterating the tang of time from your branches. They make you young with their grins and the way they cling and connect. They touch. A lot. They kiss and laugh and tease and smile. A lot.

And then they don't.

And then they're gone.

And you're not entirely positive, but you're pretty sure you just saw a shooting star, blinding and brilliant and haunting in its absence.

—

You're over one hundred years old and two men step out of a car and sit on the hood to watch the stars. They're older, and there is a set to their shoulders that speaks of war and harsh weather and something that wears from the inside out.

Their feet feel familiar around your roots, solid, as they step up to the side of your trunk. You hear the snick of the knife and see the flash of silver in the moonlight and a soft "I've missed you" and it's hard to make out their silhouettes in the dark but you know they're staring at each other.

They carve their mark on you that night, and it hurts and you weep and the taller one says "Dean this is all but delinquent" and the shorter one says "Shut up Sam."

They leave, and they don't touch or cling like they used to as they go. You assume that these men have left behind whatever warm summer romance had dizzied them as children.

But then their fingers brush, just so slightly as they reach for the trunk of the car, and you realize that this story has only just begun for these two.

And you're not entirely positive, but you're pretty sure you've just seen love, flawed and difficult, but held up by two people who need each other more than anything.

—

You are over one hundred years old, and a man drives up in a sleek car and clambers out of the front seat. He carries nothing but a small box and you wonder what he could possibly mean to do with it. You think this man looks familiar but there are wrinkles where there used to be laugh lines, dull simmer in eyes where there used to be bright sparks. He's not old, but he is worn. And he stands tall but he looks so small, and this man looks up at you and you think you have never seen something so heart breaking, and he hasn't yet said a word.

This man digs a small hole in the ground, careful not to touch your roots; he knows where they are and he doesn't want to hurt you. He tucks the box in that hole, slowly, reverently, and wipes his face on his sleeve.

And then, funny, he leans against your old scar, that old pen-knifed _SW & DW_ on your trunk that you wear like a red badge of courage, a testament to your age and your resilience, a testament to two boys with tangled fingers, to balmy summer evenings under the stars, to nights camping out on the hood of their Impala, a testament that runs deeper than your own rings of age and wisdom on this earth. This man, this soldier, leans against your scar and he whispers something into your bark and he's shaking and you don't really understand humans and you don't really understand their words but it sounds something like "Goodbye Sammy."

The man gets in his car and he drives away.

And there you stand, scarred and climbed and kicked and holding ashes and blood and tears beneath your roots.

And you're not entirely positive, but you're pretty sure you just witnessed the most incredible thing that any tree has ever seen or felt or experienced:

Soulmates.

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